


here it never snowed. afterwards it did.

by heybernia



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, M/M, Mutual Pining, obligatory mathew barzal and brock boeser appearances, soulmates if you really squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 05:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17136203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heybernia/pseuds/heybernia
Summary: “No shit,” Tyson says, genuinely shocked. “What are the chances of finding a bakery in North Dakota that is ran by another boy from BC?”(or, Tyson is far from home and he can feel every inch of the distance tugging at him. Feels it everywhere apart from when he's in a small warm bakery that appears whenever he needs it.)





	here it never snowed. afterwards it did.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aimerai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimerai/gifts).



> aimerai, i hope you enjoy this, i came up with this idea pretty soon after i read your dear author letter and hopefully it combines some things that you like and makes you laugh <3
> 
> thanks to everyone who were so supportive of the idea when i told it to them and to anon for the comments

Tyson likes North Dakota. He does for reasons other than hockey crushes he’s mostly over by now. It’s got a sweet rink and even if he can’t actually make out the green scattered across it properly, Tyson can appreciate it. None of his classes are making his brains leak out of his ears yet, his teammates are pretty rad, chill to hang out with, and he’s met a couple of people who Tyson would class as friends already even if they don’t feel the same way.

Tyson has always known he liked North Dakota. The idea of going there and attending college. It was basically the only thing he could talk about ever since he committed.

That’s why it’s hard for Tyson to think about how it’s not yet. About how it still hasn’t. Fuck. 

Every day, Tyson wakes up and thinks, today will be the day he feels settled an that he won’t miss home, and every day he goes to sleep with a tiny, painful ache at the bottom of his throat. 

Give it time, that’s what his mom will say, that’s what everyone will. That’s all anyone could say because Tyson can’t even explain any of it, why this is getting to him so much. 

Penticton might not have been home either but somehow being in Canada made all of the difference. Getting to devour every single morsel of Margery’s cooking every day probably helped too. 

He needs to get used to this feeling. If every other player in the NHL can, then he has to too. 

The door to the room swings open and Tyson whips his head up, his earphones falling out of his ears.

It’s Andrew Peksi, his roommate on the basis of being another rookie from Canada.

“Where’s your food?” Tyson asks. He thought Andrew went down to make another barely on their diet plan meal. 

Andrew screws up his mouth. “Someone tried to heat up their Chinese in the oven while still in the plastic containers. It’s a hazard and no one seems to have a spare tray,” Andrew says. “I was gonna order in, preferable something that doesn’t come in plastic. Do you want in?”

“I’m not hungry,” Tyson says, a blatant lie, but Andrew doesn’t know him well enough to know that Tyson’s stomach is made up of like hundreds of tiny greedy goats who are always hungry.

“Suit yourself,” Andrew says. He lies down on his bed, and Tyson likes him, but Tyson doesn’t want to be around anyone else right now. Tyson sits up from where he was slouching on his bed, stretches his shoulders, listens from them cracking before slipping his feet into the already tied shoes, hiding the holes in his socks.

“You going somewhere?” Andrew asks, consulting his phone for food options.

“Just on a walk,” Tyson says.

“To where?” Andrew asks. At least he doesn’t seem bothered that Tyson is leaving as soon as he came back. 

“To wherever is away from you,” Tyson says before finishing pulling his hoodie over his head. Okay, so he might be offended now but whatever.

Andrew rolls his eyes at him. “Just remember your key. I’m not letting your drunk ass in again.”

It was already in Tyson’s jean pocket, and so he brings it out and shakes it in front of Andrew for the sake of proof. “I got it.”

Andrew says, “Nice one, Tys. See you.” 

“Bye,” Tyson says, holding onto the keys tight, keeping that tight grip on them even after he’s made sure the door has locked behind him.

Andrew is okay, he has actually gone to the effort of cleaning the room three or four times since they’ve moved in and it’s nice to have someone who’s in the same boat as him, the HMCS Maple Tims for UND boys who aren’t in Canada anymore.

Andrew calls his family once, maybe twice a week and does fine with it. Tyson doesn’t feel like he can say anything to someone who can get by on that.

It’s cold even for October. Tyson pulls his hoodie strings tighter, shoves his hands back into the front pocket as the light rain falls around him, makes the pavements look like they’re covered in glitter, little prickles from the streetlights. For a second, it reminds Tyson of frost at Christmas time, covering the gardens and the roofs, and it’s enough to hit him hard enough with memories that take the rest of the breath out of him. All he can thinks about is the small trees they always had for Christmas weighed down by the amount of decorations, about staying up with his sister under a blanket armed with a torch and some borrowed carrots, about how their mom would always make sure they had fake snow on the tree and one time Tyson and Kacey gathered up buckets of snow and brought it inside to drop on the tree. Their mom had to get new lights after that.

He’s not going to be there this year. He’s going to miss it so much. Every year, he’s going to miss it.

A strong gust of wind blows rain straight into his face, the droplets stinging with the cold. Tyson stops and rubs at his eyes, blinking up against the wavering rain and the strong light coming through the windows of the building beside him. It seems to be awake while everywhere else is getting ready to sleep. 

The sign seems to say it’s a bakery. Tyson puts his face against the window and cups his hands around his eyes so he can see inside. Definitely a bakery, there’s some chairs made up of pale blue rods with wooden backs and seats tucked underneath some tables that each have a small vase of flowers on them. When Tyson takes a few steps back, he can read the white lettering on the window, elegant and curling up at the ends, letting Tyson know that they have _fresh cakes and pastries all day!_ Tyson throws his head back and reads the sign above the store properly. It’s white edged with blue and likely green, Tyson is sure, letters shaped like clouds that are bordered by the meadows and the sky. The name is just Fabbro’s but it works.

There’s no open or closed sign on the door or anywhere. The lights are on, but surely they’re not actually open despite what the letters on the window are saying. Tyson looks back to the window again, and blinks, then squints at the letters. Below fresh cakes all day, it says come in, you’re always welcomed, finished off with a wonky smiley face.

That wasn’t there before. Tyson is sure it wasn’t there before, but it has to have been. There’s no one in the shop so he probably just missed it.

He tries the door, pushes it open gently. He keeps on pushing it until there’s a big enough of a gap for him to sneak through even though the quaint ring of the bell ruins any chance he actually had of being sneaky.

Tyson takes the chance to look around. There’s enough seats to hold ten people at most and there’s only one till so it’s going for the homely, local kind of vibe, and it’s definitely working.

There are frames on the wall, spaced out and reasonable sized. Tyson’s expecting like paintings of sailboats and lighthouses inside the wooden frames but finds things to do with sports instead, mostly soccer and hockey and lacrosse, some paintings, others drawings and a few photographs scattered around. 

“Hey, sorry for the wait, can I get you anything?"

“Jesus fuck!” Tyson jumps and barely swallows his scream. “Thanks for scaring the pants off me, man,” he says, mouth moving faster than he can turn his head to the counter.

There’s a boy behind it now. A boy and not a man because he looks to be about the same age as Tyson, except Tyson doesn’t have dark hair that looks it could have been inflated by an air pump with the way it stands up. His face is dominated by his eyebrows, they’re thick and dark and straighter than Tyson by a long shot. He seems to be a little confused, maybe a little like he’s trying not to laugh at Tyson either.

“Sorry, I was through in the back,” he says. His voice is kind of deep or that might because he kind of mumbled through it. “Didn’t think I’d get anyone else coming in.”

“Oh, if you were about to close up, I can go,” Tyson says. At least he got some shelter from the misty rain before he has to make his way back.

The boy’s eyebrows shift closer together.

“Where are you from?” He asks. 

“Uhhhh, Canada. Kelowna actually, like Western Canada,” Tyson says. “Why? Can you tell by the accent? I’m not taking any flack for it, I’m a proud Canadian boy.

Out of nowhere, the boy smiles, cheeks a rosy red from working beside ovens probably, and in Tyson’s head, he hears glass shattering from his heart jumping through the window and out onto the street. “I guess so, yeah. I’m from Coquitlam, so like Western Canada too.”

“No shit,” Tyson says, genuinely shocked. “What are the chances of finding a bakery in North Dakota that has a boy from BC in it?”

The boy is still smiling and Tyson doesn’t know how much he can take of this beam being directed at him. “I don’t know, how about you find out and tell me.” He’s messing with something behind the counter, muscles in his arms flexing and Tyson is very well up to appreciating.

“I can do that,” Tyson says, walking closer to the front of the counter. Tyson is lining up to shoot his shot when the boy wipes his forehead and lifts a blue box onto the countertop.

“Here,” he says. 

“Huh,” Tyson replies like the smart guy he is. 

“These are for you,” the boy says, pushing the box closer to Tyson.

“What is?” Tyson asks, weary of the contents from the box. The shelves were all empty when he got here. 

“Cakes I think you’ll enjoy,” he says. “Don’t worry, they’re free.” Tyson literally only met this boy about three minutes minutes ago, but there’s something about that makes Tyson instantly trust him. Probably has something to do with the cuff of his shirt being tight around his bicep and the honest lines of his face.

“Thank you,” Tyson says, genuinely grateful. The box is light, but Tyson still carries it in two hands to keep it safe. It is some real precious cargo.“This is the best thing someone has ever given me when they’ve wanted me to leave.”

“No problem,” the boy says, still smiling. “You’re always welcomed here by the way, whenever you want. Have nice days until then.” He sounds like he means it and Tyson is going to believe that he does wherever it’s his own wishful hearing or not.

“You too, thanks again.” Tyson really doesn’t want to leave. There’s something about this bakery, and this boy, that makes him feel contented right to his soul. 

The bell rings again when he pulls open the door to leave. Something in Tyson possesses him in that moment, makes him turn around and wave goodbye. The boy blinks, before smiling and waving back, and Tyson’s face feels too warm.

It’s stopped raining nevertheless so Tyson doesn’t have to worry about the box getting wet. Tyson still ends up rushing a little to get home to see what’s inside the box.

About five minutes later, his stomach grumbles.

“Dude, no, c’mon,” Tyson says.

His stomach roars even louder and well, having one of the pastries can’t hurt right. Just one.

Tyson opens up the box and he’s not just metaphorically drooling, he’s about to start actually drooling. There is four in the box and they’re all huge and smell so fucking good, like they’ve been freshly baked. 

Tyson picks up a bun shaped one covered in cross-stitch pattern of icing. There seems to be some fruit in it but when Tyson bites into it, the only thing that hits his sense is a wave of overwhelming nostalgia tinged with warmth. 

It’s not an explosion in his mouth. It’s something softer than that, more enveloping, overwhelming in a good way. It tastes fantastic, more than that, it tastes like how Tyson imagines home would.

“Good walk?” Andrew asks when Tyson finally makes it back to the room.

“The best,” Tyson says as he faceplants onto his bed. He made sure to wipe all of the crumbs off his face before he entered the building and put the box in the garbage too

He falls asleep easily that night, no non-hockey aches inside, only the satisfaction of good cakes instead.

~~~

The next day, Tyson tries to find the bakery again. He can’t remember exactly where it is or where he walked because it turns out it’s hard to recognise places when the only thing Tyson can remember looking at was the pavements.

He can’t find it anywhere. No one has ever heard of it and putting the name of the bakery into Google turns up absolutely nothing. Literally nothing.

Andrew said that he was probably still high from the day before or whatever, but eating brownies has never made Tyson feel like how he did in the bakery. Grounded, solid, like everything was settled and where it was meant to be.

~~~

There’s not much difference between November and October in Grand Forks. Like maybe Tyson regrets not bringing a jacket with him to the house party more, but it’s cool, it’s grand, Tyson still got to make out with a guy or two so overall it was a success.

“I’m pretty sure you did bring a jacket, bro,” Brock says, helping Tyson along the road.

“Nah, bro, I don’t think so,” Tyson says, taking advantage of Brock’s rock like solidness. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“You’re not a pet rock, you’re a bro-rock, you’re Brock. Oh my god.” 

Brock starts to laugh a little which sets off Tyson into giggles so they’re both probably gone. 

Tyson is still giggling, even when bakery boy suddenly comes to the front of his mind. God, Tyson really wants to see him again and maybe kiss his face. 

Ahead of them, there’s a sudden flash of light that doesn’t switch off. Tyson holds his hand up to stop the light from blinding him. He almost can’t believe what he sees on the other side of the street. 

“Dude!” He tugs hard on Brock’s arm and waves his free hand in the direction of the light. “Dude! That’s the bakery I was telling you about! Dude!” 

Brock maybe blinks. It’s hard to tell from where Tyson is leaning into him and Tyson’s too busy looking at the sign to actually know.

“Bakery with eyebrow boy,” Brock says, mildly questioning.

“Yeaaaaaaah, it’s got some real tasty,” Tyson says past his face splitting grin, drawing out the second syllable of tasty because he forgot how he was going to end this sentence and it’s too late to go back now. “Tasty products all around.”

“Uh-huh, I’m sure,” Brock says which means he isn’t listening but he goes on before Tyson can wax lyrical about the buns and swirls. “You got served by a boy with eye black for eyebrows right?”

Tyson nods multiple times. “Bakery boy was a sweet thing. Very sweet. Probably tastes sweet too. He looks like he would.” Brock lets out an undignified groan and pushes Tyson off him, leaving Tyson to fend for himself against the unforgiving gravity of the planet.

“Well, he’s inside, so go get him. I’ll be waiting outside. Bring me a cake if you can.”

Tyson trusts that God won’t pull a Final Destination and kill him right here in front of the bakery. His trust is rewarded as he makes it across the road safely and the sign doesn’t fall on him either, he just enters through the front door. 

Bakery Boy looks up, and as soon as he sees Tyson, he smiles. 

“Hey,” he says, he sounds happy too. Tyson has no clue what to do “It’s good to see you.”

Bakery Boy comes around to the front of the counter. face already starting to burn bright with those rosy cheeks again. 

“Hey!” It would only take one, maybe two steps before he could wrap his arms around him, but hugging someone when you don’t know their name is weird.

“Did you enjoy the cakes?” Bakery Boy asks and Tyson doesn’t have his four page love letter with him but he’s going to do his best to recite it anyway. 

“Oh, heck yes, definitely yes. Yes written in huge letters in the sky yes.They were all the tastiest things I’ve ever had and I would like twenty more of each,” Tyson says, meaning every single word.

Tyson is managing to cause his own death because the boy’s smile levels are reaching over nine thousand and Tyson has no sunglasses in sight.

“Hey, what’s your name?” Tyson asks, smiling through the blinding. “It would be a good thing to know. I like to know the names of boys who give me cakes.” 

Tyson is sure the boy’s blush levels increase too which is good, this better be a mutual thing. “I’m Dante,” he says.

“Great, cool. Dante’s a great name, very unique.”

Dante’s smiling at him. He’s wearing an apron although that hasn’t stopped him from getting flour over his arms and a little smudge on his face. Tyson would like to help him take off the stains.

“What’s yours?”

“My what?”

“Your name?”

“Oh, it’s Tyson. It’s very not unique.”

“Maybe, I like it though. It suits you.”

Dante’s smile is making his eyes turn crunchy, no, Tyson means scrunchy and it’s making him feel a lot of emotions that can be summed up as there being an alarm refrain of he’s cute on repeat.

“Why are you the only person I ever see working in here?” Tyson blurts out something, anything to distract his brain.

“Because you only ever come here late at night when everyone has been lucky enough to go home,” Dante points out. 

“Do you sleep here? Do you not have anywhere else to go to? Is your home with the donuts and the swirls?”

Tyson is asking some serious questions here, but Dante ends up laughing loudly instead of giving him answers, and Tyson wouldn’t complain if he ended up getting buried in the floor of the bakery, the site of his demise, as long as they put up a memorial. 

“Anytime you want you can come and sleep in my bed. Literally any time, it will be there for you when the rain starts to fall,” Tyson promises.

There’s something about Dante’s face that’s just plain funny, it makes Tyson want to laugh even when he’s laughing at Tyson and his sincerity. “Maybe one day. I think tonight you should go to bed by yourself though,” Dante elaborates without any sympathy, not even when Tyson’s smile slips off his face. “I actually need to go home soon.”

Tyson sighs. “Okay.” It is pretty late. 

“You can come back whenever you want though. I meant it you know, I think you’d make a great taste tester,” Dante says. Tyson can’t remember a compliment he’s been more pleased with than that. 

“I’m going to miss your pastries while I’m away,” Tyson says as an attempt to return the favour. That’s not exactly what Tyson was thinking but it was close.

Dante stiffens up, concerned and confusion on his face, until he lets out an oh sound. “You’re going World Juniors camp, yeah.”

“Yeah,” Tyson says. “World Juniors. Gotta win gold.”

“Well, make sure you win it, for Canadian pride and all that,” Dante says.

“You think I can make the team?” Tyson asks.

“I know you will. I’ll bake you something special if you do,” Dante says.

Like Tyson needs more motivation than that.

“That sounds good, but, like, would it be okay if I took a couple of cakes away now? Please, Brock asked me to get him one,” Tyson asks.

“Yeah, that’s good. Do you want one from the last box or something new?” Dante asks. 

He doesn’t even need to think about it. “Something new, I want to try everything you’ve got,” Tyson says. There’s a curl of anticipation deep in Tyson’s gut, the buzz of alcohol shifting into something warmth as he watches Dante make the box in question, skillfully, carefully and with a small smile on his face the whole time. 

“This cake better have been worth waiting for,” Brock says when he sees Tyson and the box, it’s orange this time. 

“Oh, it will be, for sure. Trust me on this,” Tyson says. 

Brock looks a little doubtful until he takes his first bite.

“Holy fuck Tyson,” Brock says through his mouthful of beautiful crumbly pastry and icing. 

“I know, dude,” Tyson says. He shuts up after that because cakes from Dante are more important than talking and breathing. 

~~~

Turns out that mysterious boys from Coq who work in bakeries and have the greatest baking hands are right about things like making Team Canada which, Tyson knew he could do it. His family believed in him, and so do his coaches and his friends, but Dante believing in him, that was--it meant a lot. 

Tyson has been to Toronto before plenty of times although he’d still have most of his mental map covered in fog because the place is that fucking huge. He can’t say the same about Montreal though. 

He tries to ask Duber for hints about places where you might find a bakery that only seems to appear once a month in the dark, but Duber just shrugs and laughs at him, saying something about letting Tyson experience it all first hand. Fuck stupid handsome Duber, ugh.

He’d try asking the other guys from the Q but they seem to be too busy making eyes at each other and just happening to leave together to help him. At least the O and Dub don’t try to be sly about it. 

Tyson uses some of his free time to try looking for the bakery which he’s becoming more and more sure just exists in his head. He’s tempted to congratulate his brain on thinking up Dante, his art teacher in middle school would have had a hard time failing him if drew Dante. 

If it just exists in Tyson’s head, then maybe if Tyson really wished for it to appear, then it will. 

Tyson stops on a street corner, closes his eyes, and wishes as hard as he can that the bakery and Dante appear. Tyson’s done with missing things anymore. 

Softly and suddenly, the sound of plucked guitar strings floats through the air. Tyson opens his eyes and is ready to frown at whoever is playing with their window open when he spots the now familiar lettering on the big window plain. 

He can’t read it because it’s in French, but he gets the jist of it and lets himself into the bakery, ready to shout a hello to Dante when he realises that there’s someone else here, someone sitting at a table with Dante who has a guitar on his lap. 

Tyson is taking back any praise he has ever given his brain because if he is making all of this up, then there is absolutely no reason why Mat Barzal of all people should be sat down talking to Dante and laughing like he’s a demon from a nineties cartoon. Dante is also laughing, like there’s probably tears in his eyes laughing, and Tyson is in the awkward position of standing there wanting desperately for Mat to shut up and wanting Dante to never shut up. 

Mat through his powers of echolocation or whatever turns around before he’s even stopped laughing. If there is one positive to this, it’s that the fact Mat makes when he sees that it’s him is absolutely hilarious. 

“Josty,” Mat says, disbelieving and questioning all in one. 

Dante recovers just enough to lift his head and see where Mat is looking. His hair is all messed up, curls going where ever they want on the front. “Oh hi Tyson,” Dante says, voice more composed than Tyson thought it would be.

Mat whips his head round. “This is Tyson,” Mat says to Dante. Tyson is half-worried that his eyebrows are going to rip themselves off and stab him in the throat.

Dante’s eyebrows are on their own adventure, trying to draw attention away from the violent blush on his face with their sharp frowny slope. 

Mat turns back to him. Tyson is thankful it’s not just twisting in the same direction like an owl. “You’re Tyson,” he says, that same inimitable mix of disbelief, smugness and mockery that makes Tyson have to take deep breaths to refrain from doing something he’d regret.

“Yeah, Mat. It’s good to know you’ve finally remembered my name.” 

“You’re welcome,” Mat says. He leans back in his chair so he can easily look at both Tyson and Dante. “So how do you know Dante?”

“I’ve met him a few times in North Dakota. He let me try his cakes,” Tyson says. 

“Really,” Mat says. “Is that true, Dante?”

Dante’s hiding his face behind his hands having moved the guitar off his lap. “Yes,” he says, muffled.

“Well, how do you know Dante then?” Tyson asks. 

“That’s your main concern,” Mat says, dripping with his brand of casual dickishness. “Not about why the bakery and Dante are suddenly in Montreal?”

“Well, it’s like,” Tyson starts to say ignoring Dante laying his head on the table. “It’s magic. It has to be magic, that’s obvious. That makes sense, duh. Him knowing you and speaking to you doesn’t.”

“Well, me and Dante have been friends since we were kids,” Mat says, moving over to the bragging side of his dickish range. 

“Dante having bad taste in friends doesn’t make sense,” Tyson says. 

“We’ve been _best_ friends since we were kids.”

“Dante having grown up with bad taste, that still makes no sense.”

“We had sleepovers and watched Dexter’s Laboratory together. 

“Codename Kids Next Door was better.”

This whole time Mat’s face has been getting tighter and tighter, and more annoyed. “We used to play hockey together.”

It hangs in the air for a long moment. Dante lifts his head off the table and stares at Mat who looks at him once before turning away and running a hand through his hair. Mat doing something underhanded to win, now that makes too much fucking sense. “You played hockey?” Tyson asks, oddly dumbfounded.

Dante’s mouth is pressed into a flat line.

“He was good. Actually good,” Mat says.

“Mat,” Dante says, a warning tone. 

“Could have gone places if he had the opportunities or was allowed to,” Mat finished. 

“Alright Mat, it’s time for you to go please, thank you, bye,” Dante says quickly but forceful all the same. 

Mat sighs, but he stands up and tucks his chair in. Manages to avoid knocking into Josty on his way past. 

“Give my love to Tina and Steve,” Mat says after he opens the door, and starts to let the cold air and the drops of snow in. “See you back at the hotel, Josty.”

“See you, Barz.”

The door shuts behind Mat, sending a final glide of cold air in but Tyson isn’t sure that’s the reason Dante is trying to chuck his chin down into his shirt. So hockey is definitely touchy subject and as much as Tyson wants to ask about it, leaving it for now is definitely the best thing. 

“So you work in a magic bakery, eh,” Tyson says. 

“Yeah,” Dante says, flat. 

“Cool.” 

“Yeah, it is.” 

Tyson stands next to the chair on the other side of Dante. Waits for him to say something.

Eventually Dante asks,“Did you really not know?” He’s still mostly frowning at the table despite the odd glances up. 

Tyson sits down and pulls the chair in. His felt brush against Dante’s before he pulls them back under the chair too. “I had my suspicions about it.” 

“But you didn’t actually know?”

“No,” Tyson admits. “Honestly I thought I had made it up. Even then, I guess I didn’t think it was important as long as I got to be here sometimes.”

Dante doesn’t say anything to that, and now that Tyson’s fight or flight response isn’t being triggered by Mathew Barzal’s mere presence, he feels kind of sheepish about the whole thing.

“Sorry about Mat.”

“It’s alright. He can be a dick.”

“He’s still your friend though,” Tyson says. 

Dante lifts his head up enough to show Tyson his little one-sided smile. “He’s my friend who happens to be a dick,” Dante says.

“I’m not the one who said it,” Tyson says. Now that Tyson knows what the bakery’s deal is, he has some questions. “Is this your family’s bakery?”

“Yeah,” Dante says. “One of those we’ve had since like my grandfather’s grandfather’s deals.”

“And it’s always been magical?”

“Yeah, apparently so.”

“Cool, so is the actual bakery in Coq then?”

Dante shakes his head. “More like actual Vancouver.”

Tyson nods in response. “Cool, cool that gives me a reason to visit in the summer.”

That makes Dante give Tyson a bigger smile than any Tyson has seen from him today. “We do ice cream in the summer.”

“What flavours?”

”Whatever your favourites is for sure.”

“What about sprinkles?”

“Definitely.”

“Well, I’ve definitely got to go now then.”

Next summer feels like a long way, way, away from now but finally having a tangible destination beyond going home is nice.

“Tyson,” Dante starts and Tyson leans forward to make sure he’s listening in. “If you thought the bakery was all in your head, how did you explain away the pastries I’ve been given you?”

“The stomach and the brain are very powerful beings, capable of conjuring up many a fantasy.”

“You didn’t think about that.”

“Shut up, it wasn’t important.”

~~~

The next time Tyson ends up in the bakery, it’s Christmas Eve. Supposed to be early afternoon, but the edges of the sky are already tinged with different colours, which signals how it’s going to turn dark soon.

He doesn’t mean to walk into the bakery for once. 

“This definitely isn’t the convenience store,” Tyson says out loud.

“No, it’s not. Our cakes never go stale,” Dante replies. He’s in the back and he’s sticking his head through the door form. “I’ll be with you in a minute, Tyson.”

The bakery is covered in Christmas decorations and there’s a tree that spans from the floor to the ceiling in one of the corners, flicking with blue, red and silver lights and with a star on top. 

Dante is drying his hands off with a towel when he comes through and throws it onto the counter. Some of whatever it is seems to still be stubbornly stuck to his hands but Tyson doesn’t mind. 

“You excited for Christmas?” Dante asks. 

“Yeah,” Tyson says, not wanting to bring down Dante’s mood with his own sad depressing little rain cloud. He might not have been knowingly thinking about being in the bakery, but he might always be thinking about it a little, especially when he has something in his backpack that’s he been carrying around with him just in case he walks in. 

“I’ve got your card, by the way,” Tyson says. Dante is doing that frowny thing with his face that Tyson finds unbelievably cute. He quickly gets the card out of his backpack and hands it over to Dante, resists the urge to touch Tyson’s own burning hot face with his cooling hands.

“Merry Christmas, Dante,” Tyson says.

He’s not sure at all what kind of face Dante is making now, it’s not frowny, it’s softer and lighter than that. “Thanks, Tyson. I didn’t get you anything,” Dante says.

“All the cakes have been more than enough, dude. You don’t owe me anything,” Tyson shrugs it off. 

Dante’s face is back to being frowny again. “It’s cool, I mean it. I gave you a card because I wanted to, I didn’t want anything back from it. It’s really not a big deal, I made my mum a card and I bought ones for my sister and grandparents, and the guys I know on the team so, yeah, not a big deal at all.”

Dante blinks and turns his head side-to-side a little, his hair defying gravity all the while. “You make your mum a card?”

“Yeah, I’ve always made one for her since I was a kid. It’s what she wants every year,” Tyson says.

“That’s cute,” is all Dante says. 

“It sucks you can’t spend Christmas with her and your family,” Dante says.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s something I have to get used to,” Tyson says.

“Still sucks though,” Dante says.

Tyson lets out a sigh. “Yeah, it does.” He’s tired of keeping it all in. “I dunno, it feels kind of stupid to miss them as much as I do. It’s the same when I’m at college. Everyone else doesn’t seem to.”

“It’s not,” Dante says. “I don’t think it is. Both of my sisters are at Nashville for college and I know they miss home a lot. I miss them a lot.”

Maybe it’s nice to have it out there, to have the relief of someone not telling him how to feel. “My sister is going to college next year,” Tyson says. “She plays volleyball.”

“That’s great. Mine both play soccer,” Dante says. 

“So they’re better looking than you and better at sports, jeez Dante, I feel bad for you,” Tyson says.

“Shut up, you’re not even going to be the best kid who plays sports at college in your family,” Dante says. 

They end up talking and sharing childhood stories, and Tyson spends the whole time laughing with his whole entire body, he can’t seem to get enough air in and it doesn’t matter because Dante is laughing too. 

He facetimes his mom as soon as he gets back to his hotel room. She asks him if he had a good day like she does everytime they speak, and Tyson doesn’t have to lie one bit in his answer. 

~~~

Him and Mat don’t talk about how they’re taking turns to see Dante, but that’s definitely what they’re doing.

It seems like the fair thing to do and there’s absolutely nothing to be competitive about, it’s just meeting Dante and spending time with him. It’s chill.

Tyson kicking Mat’s ass without remorse at ping pong is purely for the fun and the enjoyment and Jake having to take the bat off Mat before he breaks it on the table, they’re already down a spare because of Kale. 

Mat pulls Tyson aside and Tyson is ready to argue for the sake of his soul when Mat solemnly says, “Don’t fuck it up.”

That’s the only thing Mat says before he leaves, and the whole thing leaves Tyson confused enough that he loses to Bean twice in a row afterwards. 

No point in thinking about ping-pong or bakeries or anything like that on New Year’s Eve, as much as Tyson tries to. As much as he wants to after the game, after they lost to Team USA in the afternoon.

By the time they left the arena, the sky was dark, empty, no stars to be seen. The lights on the bus stay low too, hardly any glow of phones either.

The only place Tyson really wants to go is home. The only place he’d actually be able to go to is the bakery. Every time he opens a door, he’s hoping a little that he’ll end up in the bakery where he can hide away behind steamed up windows just for the night. 

It never comes of course. Tyson ends up back at the hotel with nothing to fill the hole in his stomach. 

The rest of the boys are crashing in someone’s room and drinking the minibars empty, and normally Tyson would be all of that, but he’s tired and he’s in pain and he just wants to sleep through the night once the fireworks have stopped.

Tyson goes to open the door to his hotel room. He’s looking forward to having the place to himself for the night because Bean isn’t coming back here, he’ll have someone to kiss at midnight. Maybe more than one depending on how the boys are feeling.

The first thing that hits him is the smell, the now familiar aroma of sweetness and fruits and spices.

The cheery ring of the doorbell is the second thing.

Tyson wastes no time in walking in, lets the warmth from the radiators wash over him.

There’s only one table in the bakery this time. It has two chairs, one of which Dante is sitting in. The christmas tree is still up in front of the now foggy window.

“Hey,” Dante says.

“Hey,” Tyson replies. He takes the seat opposite him. The tables must be smaller or something because their feet and legs are clashing in the middle underneath the table.

“I watched the game,” Dante says eventually. “You were great.”

“Thanks,” Tyson says.

Eventually, the wheel of Dante’s face fortune lands on sympathy. “Do you want a hot chocolate?”

“Yeah, that would be great thank you. Made with milk, right?”

“Of course, there are no other options,” Dante says, clearly offended, and it’s enough to make Tyson let out a couple of giggles. He just catches the edge of Dante’s pleased expression before he disappears to brew up said hot chocolate.

In what feels like no time at all, Dante brings two mugs over to their table, steam rising off the top of them. Dante’s has a record player on it and Tyson’s has a horse wearing a cowboy hat on it. 

“Mugs all the way from Nashville,” Dante explains. He puts his feet back where they were before getting tangled up with Tyson’s. They could be playing footsie, in fact they basically are. 

“I could have guessed that,” Tyson says. The hot chocolate is covered with delicious looking marshmallows and it smells a little sweeter than Tyson is used to. 

“A fuck you to America and Luke Kunin,” Dante announces, mug held in the air. 

“Fuck America and Luke Kunin,” Tyson says, tapping the mug gently against Dante’s and blowing on the hot chocolate. He’s picks one of the marshmallows while Dante starts to talk about this new recipe he’s been trying that Tyson can taste once he’s figured out the raspberry ratio. 

Tyson doesn’t kiss anyone when the bells ring out for the new year, nonetheless, he feels warmth on the inside of his throat anyway.

(After they lose to the United States for the second time, in the final, Tyson doesn’t go to the bakery. 

He keeps his silver medal to himself and shows it to no one.

Dante probably would have helped, because he understands it somehow, he gets it all, he gets Tyson, but maybe next time. Not now. ) 

~~~

Once Tyson arrives back in North Dakota, his life starts to become somewhat of a cycle. He does school things like writing things last minute, he does hockey things like celly and chirp the boys, and he hangs out with Dante and tastes his cakes which deserve better than being called things. It happens more often now that Tyson finds the bakery in hallways and apartment doors. Basically whenever Tyson wants to and he has the time, he ends up in Dante’s bakery.

Tyson was going to the library to study but the bakery has food and Dante and Dante strumming a few chords on his guitar that actually help Tyson focus on his work. 

“If you want, you could actually study here instead of having to go the library or whatever,” Dante says. “At least at night when it’s quieter.”

“I’m the only person who’s ever in here,” Tyson says, a few crumbs from his reward tart spilling onto his laptop keyboard. They brush off easily enough, it’s no problem.

“You’re the only person who’s ever in this version of the bakery yeah,” Dante says. 

“Okay, I’d ask you to explain that, but between these equations and that magic mojo, it would destroy my brain another time,” Tyson says. 

Dante laughs. “You’re a college boy, surely you’re smart enough for this.”

Making people laugh is something Tyson loves to do. When other people are laughing, it makes him feel so much better, kills any tight tension, and Tyson supposes when it comes to Dante, it’s the same sort of deal. Except when Dante laughs, it makes something twist in Tyson’s gut, Tyson wants anything Dante would give to him. 

Tyson’s feelings for Dante have only gotten more tangible over the months, over the visits, but he’s doing his best to ignore them now. Dante is more than a bakery boy who may or may not taste sweet, he’s Tyson’s friend and Tyson really doesn’t want to fuck this up. 

Tyson asks, “Would you be bringing me hot drinks and snacks to help me through the grind?”

“Once you start paying for them.” Dante’s grinning cheekily, and Tyson knows it’s meant to be a joke, but every good polite Canadian gene in his body has started freaking the fuck out, code mega red.

“Oh my god, I haven’t paid you for anything,” Tyson says, scrabbling to remember where he put the change from when he bought a store made sandwich.

“Tyson,” Dante says. “Tyson, it’s fine, I promise--”

“I have eight dollars and sixty, sixty-seven cents, two bits of bubble gum and a poker chip from Peks’ attempt at a games night.” They are not scattered across the table, not on his laptop this time. 

“Tyson, I can’t take your money.”

“Take the gum then, it’s strawberry flavoured.” 

“No, Tyson. No assorted items.”

“Take it.” Tyson is shoving his hands filled with not very valuable items at Dante who is now standing beside his table and shaking his head at him.

“No,” Dante says.

“Dante, please.”

“No, Tyson. I don’t want to.”

_Fuck you Dante Fabbro and your fucking morals. Let me give you my money, let me give you something, let me kiss you!_

Tyson doesn’t say that outloud, thank the bejesus. The thought alone is enough to startle him and make him start to calm down and reconsider where he was going with this. 

“Well, at least let me give you money for things from now on,” Tyson bargains, his Canadian blood pumping so hard through his veins he’s sure he can taste the Tragically Hip on his tongue.

Dante sighs. “You don’t have to, most of the cakes would be wasted if you didn’t demolish them. They’d just go to waste so thanks.”

Tyson’s not about to give this up, but he’s really got to get back to studying. “I want to. Just let me buy one thing from you each time.”

Dante lets out another sigh, long suffering, and on a video replay, it might be seen that Tyson is fluttering his eyelashes and it makes Dante’s face turn a bright red colour, but that’s up to interpretation. “Fine, deal, you can start paying for things next time.”

When Dante’s back is turned, Tyson gives it a little fist pump in celebration. 

It reminded Tyson of bickering with Kacey a little, just a lot less aggressive and a lot less palm licking and hair pulling. 

There’s no sniff of loss beside the memory, only enjoyment as he thinks about the pieced together memories in his head.

It’s hard for Tyson to feel sad when he’s in some place that makes him feel nothing but pleased and cheerful. No equations can stop that. 

He’s got himself into a right problem though. He’s started to miss his home less, but in the spot behind his ribs where the ache for his home used to be, the bakery has stands.

Everyday Tyson isn’t at the bakery, he misses it. Misses the comforting smell and how it’s always the right temperature, warm and cozy. He misses the bakery every day he isn’t there.

Misses the boy who hands him sweet things and is always willing to keep the door open for Tyson.

Wait a second. 

He texts Mat once he’s back in his room, _did you mean not to fuck up things with dante?? is that what you meant_ and waits _._

The only thing Mat sends him back is _josty i am blocking your number now bye_ which is enough of an answer for Tyson to understand it now. 

~~~

“The NCAA tourney is coming up right,” Dante says during one of Tyson’s many visits to the bakery in March now. It helps Tyson destress, what else does he need to say.

“Yeah, we’ve got Boston University in the first round,” Tyson says.

“I’m going to be cheering for you,” Dante says. “I’d put up UND banners, they’d go with the green.” 

“Thanks, dude,” Tyson says, genuinely.

Dante looks like he wants to say something, he’s pulling his lips in and not looking at 

“I would have gone to BU probably if I had left home,” Dante says.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Dante says. “I thought about it for a long while, but. I wanted to be here, you know. I don’t know what I’d do without being in the bakery.”

Tyson understands that way too much. There’s something in the way Dante looks at him that makes Tyson feels like there’s a time bomb inside him ticking away and one of these days it’s going to detonate just because of Dante looking at him.

He wants to do something. He wants to say something to Dante because Tyson is a solid 96% sure that Dante likes him too but Tyson doesn’t know how it will go, and he doesn’t know what’s going to be happening next year with him, and Tyson has no clue where he would go if he couldn’t go to the bakery anymore. 

This is an important place in his life now, he can’t really think about life without it. How he would have gotten through it.

“So you were supposed to go to BU and you’re supporting me instead,” Tyson points out. “You’re making the right choice. Thanks for being my number one fan.”

Dante turns back to down to the counter, that blush on his face again, and one of these times Tyson is going to do something about this even if he has to drag words off of his tongue one by one.

~~~

They lose to Boston University in OT. The season’s over. 

Tyson hates OT so fucking much. Hates OT and hates shootouts, they can both go jump into the ocean, be eaten by sharks and then be eaten by bottom feeders.

When the media ask him about turning pro, Tyson is going to say into the microphones that it was something he had a hard time thinking over, something he talked about with his family, coaches, teammates, Avalanche management.

Truth is that Tyson had decided before he went to sleep after that loss that he was going to sign his contract.

He’s learnt a lot in North Dakota and from UND, from spending at World Juniors, and from the whole experience. He wouldn’t be making this decision if he didn’t. It helps Tyson to learn what’s important to him.

The main thing that’s important to him is that when Tyson finds something that reminds him of home, he shouldn’t and can’t ever let go of it.

Tyson wants to be dramatic, he wants to run through the streets of Grand Forks searching for the magical bakery to appear and to slam the door open like it’s a romcom Kacey made him watch. 

He doesn’t do the running thing. There’s no need when two doors down from the office he signed his contract in, the bakery door lies waiting. 

However, he does open the door perhaps with too much enthusiasm, and it bangs off the wall. Tyson grimaces while it clashes with the echoing ringing of the bell. From somewhere within a cloud of flour behind the counter, there is a loud yelp followed by spurts of coughing. 

When the flour dust settles, it reveals a Dante whose entire being is coated in flour from head to toe like he’s some human corn dog about to be fried. 

“Tyson,” Dante manages before a few more coughs. The dust is clinging to his dark curls like sugar, or snowflakes, or some other soft thing that is now connected to Dante in Tyson’s head. “What the fuck.”

“I signed my contract,” Tyson rushes out.

Dante blinks a few times, and then he breaks out into this huge smile, the flour doing a decent job of trying to hide the blush on his cheeks. “Congratulations, Tyson. That’s great.”

“It is, yeah,” Tyson says. “So, I’m going to be in Denver from now on.”

“Well, I’m sure we can expand to locations in the Rocky Mountains,” Dante says. “Or do deliveries at the very least.”

“That’s great, but that’s not what I’m here for,” Tyson says.

“You’re not here for the food?” Dante questions, and Tyson is ready to tell him no, so fucking ready to take every single feeling he has for this magical bakery red cheeked boy and lob them at him full force.

“Well.” Tyson starts. Then stops.

“Well.” Dante repeats. Jeez, give a guy a chance, he’s about to deliver a true love confession.

“You should give me your number so I don’t have to wish to see you anymore,” Tyson says. “Because for real, I want to speak to you all the time and no offence to your magic bakery, but relying on it kind of sucks, and I want to take you out on a date and it’s easier to organise things over text.” 

Dante’s jaw looks like it’s about to fall off. Tyson has maybe imagined him drooling once or twice although he didn’t mean it like this.

“You actually like me?” He asks, incredulous. 

“Of course, yeah,” Tyson says. 

“You’re not here because of the bakery?”

“I was at first, everything you bake is really good and it’s mostly free, but I wouldn’t have kept on coming back if you weren’t always here,” Tyson says. “I mean it, Dante. Dude, I really want to take you out on a date.”

“Oh my god,” Dante says. “I don’t believe it.”

“Don’t be so humble when you like that, I’m into all of it.”

“My parents met here,” Dante says apropos of nothing. 

“Yeah, so?”

“As in, they met because my mom walked into the bakery one day when she was hundred of miles away like they were meant to be.”

“Your bakery is a matchmaker,” Tyson says. 

Dante is scratching the back of his head, his face may be the reddest Tyson has ever seen it which is saying a lot. “Yeah. The whole thing is weird, I didn’t want to scare you off.”

Tyson starts to laugh, tries to cut himself off before Dante worries himself silly. “Dante, I kept on coming back because I wanted to see you and you kept on seeing me because you wanted to see me too, right.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he says.

“So, we could have done this a long time ago I think.”

“Maybe,” Dante says, mostly to be contradictory Tyson thinks. “Ask me on a date again.”

“I like you, Dante Fabbro, a lot, and I want to ask you out on a date,” Tyson says, taking delight in the emerging joy on Dante’s face. 

“I like you too, Tyson Jost,” Dante says. 

“Maybe,” Tyson decides on.

“If you want me to give you my number, you’re going to need to take it back,” Dante says.

Tyson isn’t going to be able to stop his smile so he doesn’t even bother to try. “I, Tyson Jost, take back any bad word I said about the Fabbro bakery.”

Dante’s smiling brightly and Tyson can feel it reflecting back off of him, and they’re on the same level, like they always have been and have always meant to be. 

“Hey, so what would I have to do to get a kiss?” Tyson asks past his grin.

“I think giving me your number,” Dante replies easily.

“You’ve got yourself a deal there,” Tyson says.

Dante’s mouth tastes like none of his cakes, but that’s a good thing, because none of them even come close to the sweetness on Tyson’s tongue now.


End file.
